Aftermath

[gwenchan]

 

Fandom: Iliade

Prompt: Unità aristotelica

Returning from the battlefield always left a strange taste in Patroclus' mouth, when it came the moment to check on the soldiers, count the dead and wounded, and prepare one-self for the night. When he could finally breathe without a cuirass pressing onto his ribcage and the metal of the helmet hot against the skin. He examined his arms and legs quickly, squinting at the traces of blood on tanned skin, less than in other days, nothing a quick sponge-bath couldn't solve.

Achilles, on the other hand.

"Gods, you're a disaster."

It must have been one of those days in which he threw himself head-on into the fight and right in the core of it, and his hair sat on his head in a dry tangle more akin to a bloody thorn-bush.

Achilles' hair had always been on the longer side, even when he was a boy prior to the war, longer than the other kids at Peleus' palace. Maybe, Patroclus sometimes found himself thinking, it was one of the consequences of having divine blood.

Then came Peleus' oath upon their leaving, a useless oath like Achilles would sometimes say, and yet he kept respecting it. Once Patroclus had asked him why, why if he knew he wouldn't return home to honour the offer. Achilles hadn't really answered.
Maybe it was just another act of rebellion against the Fates.

And so his hair had kept growing, as weeks became months and months turned into years, past his shoulder blades and his waist, cut only when it started to break and a trim became mandatory. When any longer it would become unmanageable and a threat on the battlefield

But even so there wasn't an evening where Achilles' hair didn't carry some traces of a whole day of soldiering. On good days, it was mostly dust and knots, tangles when the wind blew strong and salty from the sea. Under the helm sweat matted it at the scalp.

On bad days, like this one, it was blood and smelly bits of viscera trapped between fair locks. 

It promised to be a long, long evening. 

"Warm the water. A lot," Patroclus ordered a couple of girl-slaves as Achilles finished removing his armour, making it clear he would need a bath as well. 

Warm spirals of vapour rose from the tripod when the slave-girls placed it just outside the tent and bowed deeply, asking if they'd need anything else. 

"Prepare another," Patroclus instructed. 

With this, he gingerly dipped his fingers into the water and when he deemed it had cooled down enough, he filled a jug. A work for the women, someone would say, but he liked it, the soothing and sweet intimacy that came with the ritual. Achilles became less jittery in his hands.

 "Head forward."

As Achilles obeyed, long hair swinging before his face, he started pouring onto his scalp, letting the stream wash the first layer of dirt. 

"Is the water alright?"

Achilles hummed a vague but affirmative response. Patroclus repeated the process, till the hair was drenched to the tips and the water splashed to the ground mostly clean.

He twisted it onto itself to squeeze out most of the wetness.

They washed each-other after that, with the fresh water the slaves had fetched before Achilles dismissed them, curt and brisk. Part of the household for some years now, they had lit up two bracers inside the tent and prepared two fresh tunics for their masters. Patroclus tied his haphazardly while retrieving an ivory comb and a vial of odorous oil, as Achilles sat on the pallet still in the nude, half-wet hair cascading over his muscled back. 

With a clean linen cloth Patroclus rubbed his head till it was just damp. He poured some oil onto his hands, scrubbing them together, before working it from Achilles’ scalp and down through his lengths, fingers carding through the locks to begin disentangling most of it. In days like this he could never comb past Achilles’ shoulders without getting stuck.

“Still don’t understand why you don’t simply tie it,” he said, squinting to examine a knot and the way around it. 

“That’s for women,” Achilles replied, as he tilted his head back to assecondate the pull that came from Patroclus’ finger-brushing.  

“If you say so.”

He knew there was another, far more real, reason, how in truth Achilles did refuse to tie his hair so as to have Patroclus wash it again for him. For being the most feared warriors among the Greeks, he did like being pampered. 

“Some men wear their hair in tresses,” Patroclus pointed out, picking up the comb, sturdy and with large teeth. He dipped them into the oil.

"I don't like tresses," Achilles insisted, stubborn, "They pull and itch."

"If you say so."

In the end, there was no point in arguing. Arranging himself behind Achilles, Patroclus separated the first section of hair from the rest. He combed it the way Achilles liked, the way he learnt years ago when he had just become his squire, a kid on the cusp of boyhood who had lost his home and was just starting to find a new one.
“Do you want to go for a walk, later?” He asked to fill the silence, working the comb from the bottom and moving up only when he was certain all the knots in that section had been tamed. 

“Maybe, after dinner. If we aren’t too tired.”

Patroclus nodded, moving away the disentangled portion to start with another. On these shores summer arrived early and a stroll on the beach, next to the ships, even at night, would be pleasant. Sometimes he wondered if he would ever return to the lands beyond the sea. To home. Then, he would catch himself and shake his head. If Achilles was to die in Ilium shadow, he wouldn’t live much longer.

“Maybe we’ll see some dolphins,” Achilles murmured, almost as if he had read Patroclus’ mind and wanted to distract him.

“Maybe.”

Normally, dolphins swam in the open, to be seen only when they sailed to raid this or that nearby island. Sometimes, however, they did push to the shores, their shiny and slick grey heads bobbing through the waves on the water’s surface. They rolled on their bellies and greeted the men with their high-pitched verses and funny dolphin smile.

“But no swimming,” he added. By now, he knew for Achilles a walk on the beach almost always meant a night dip. He had always had an affinity for water, another thing he had taken from his mother’s side- “You’re not going to undo my work.”
Even turned, he could easily see Achilles scrunching his lips into a pout. “It will get ruined anyway tomorrow”

“And that's a problem for tomorrow," Patroclus didn't miss a bit. Years of living with Achilles taught him the importance of harsh "no" when it came to his companion. 

Of course, he still wondered why he bothered so much when tomorrow morning Achilles would put on his helmet again, go to battle and return once more covered in blood and with a bird nest on his head.

Because otherwise it would become worse, he told himself after a brief moment.

Because those moments of normalcy were the best things they had. 

Combing through the whole of Achilles’ hair took a considerable amount of time, so much the first stars were already appearing outside, through the flaps of the tent. 

They talked about various other things during the process, simple, immediate things, like what animal to slaughter for dinner, if they decide to stay on their own with the other Myrmidons instead of joining the rest of the generals.

It was easy to imagine Achilles' answer. In years of war, living elbow to elbow, he had to smooth out some of his distaste toward some of the other generals, but never completely. He'd still jump at every chance to dine with the other Myrmidons and no one else. Anthilochus was a rare exception. 

“And Agamemnon always uses so much spice,” he lamented, rolling his eyes. Separating his hair into three sections, Patroclus chuckled. “That’s easily solvable.”

The thing was Achilles had always been the fuzzy eater, picky about the way his food was cooked and that hadn’t really changed with adulthood. Patroclus had seen old Phoenix still cut Achilles’ meat from time to time in the same manner of when Achilles was little. 

“But we should really join the others for today.” Patroclus kept his voice level and coaxing, while he began to fashion the hair into a loose braid. “For appearances.”

Achilles made a verse of pure distaste.
“It’ll be brief. Hold this.”

Passing the braid to Achilles so that it wouldn’t unravel, Patroclus searched for a lace with which to secure it. “As soon as dinner is done, we invent an excuse to leave. How does it sound?”

“Better.”

With that Achilles tossed the braid over his shoulder and got up to retrieve a clean tunic. 

“And we leave as soon as Nestor begins one of those anecdotes of his. I gwet he was a great warrior in his youth but I’ve had enough.”

Oily fingers tangled in his curls, Patroclus sighed, the resigned but amused sigh so typical of his daily life with Achilles.

“Deal.”